Weakest Point
by ilovecastiel18
Summary: AU without Mary and Rosie. It's a really hot day at 221B Baker St. and Sherlock is off in Germany hunting down a killer, so John has his shirt off. Until Sherlock comes home early and sees the scar on John's shoulder where he had been shot while in the war. Emotional conversation ensues. Fluff, hurt/comfort, angst. Rated T for mentions of violence and some language. One-shot.


**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch ;)

 **Summary:** AU where Mary and Rosie died in childbirth. It's a really hot day at 221B Baker St. and Sherlock is off in Germany hunting down a killer, so John has his shirt off. That is, until Sherlock comes home early and sees the scar on John's shoulder where he had been shot while in the war. Emotional conversation ensues. Fluff, hurt/comfort, angst. Rated T for mentions of violence and some language. One-shot.

 **A/N:** I'm an American, so sorry if some of my slang is a bit off :/ I've written a lot of Sherlock and Harry Potter fanfiction, so I think I'm getting better, but it's still not perfect! Sorry!

….

Weakest Point

….

It was so hot in the flat that John could have sworn the wallpaper was starting to peel. Usually he would be wearing cuffed jeans and a button-down shirt, but it was just too bloody hot. Instead, he was wearing an old pair of denim shorts and an old purple band t-shirt. And after that got too damn hot, he stripped off the t-shirt and just walked around in his shorts. Sherlock wouldn't be home until the next day anyway.

As he spread out on the couch and sipped lemonade, John started to wonder if the heat would ever die down. It had ben three days since the heat wave started, and he wasn't sure if he could last another minute. And if it persisted after Sherlock got back it would be even worse, because then John would have to wear a shirt at all times, lest Sherlock see…

But no. if wearing a shirt during the highest temperatures he had ever endures was what it took to keep Sherlock's sharp eyes away from the scar on his shoulder, then that's simply what John would have to do.

Pushing those thoughts out of his mind, John started to doze, warm, watered-down lemonade glass slipping from his fingers onto the floor and starting to leak. There hadn't been much left, but the little bit of remaining ice had melted in the glass, creating a sticky puddle on the floor. Oh well, he'd clean it up later…

Since John was kipping on the couch, he was unaware of the precise, clipped footsteps coming up the stairs toward the flat. And when Sherlock walked in and saw John seemingly passed out on the couch with a spilled drink beside him, he lost it.

"John! _John!"_ he yelled, running over to the couch and kneeling in the sticky puddle of spilled lemonade.

John awoke with a start. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, what are you yelling about?" John sat up and rubbed his head, not yet realizing that his shoulder was exposed to the one man who he never wanted to show it to.

"I thought…I should have realized you were fine, I apologize. I saw the spilled drink on the floor and thought you had passed out from heat stroke. I'm sorry I startled you." Sherlock apologized and stood from his kneeling position, wiping at the residue left on the knees of his designer dress pants.

"I see you've dressed for the weather, John." Sherlock smirked as his eyes started sliding toward John's left shoulder…

And that's when it clicked. John rocketed off the couch and practically hurdled over the desks to get to his t-shirt, which he had tossed over the arm of his chair earlier that day.

"You could have warned me you were coming home early, you prick!" John snapped, though the edge in his voice was muffled by the fabric of the t-shirt, which he was rather violently yanking over his head.

"Why ruin a good surprise?" Sherlock smirked again and started heading toward his bedroom to change out of his ruined pants.

When he came back in the den, he was wearing a pair of cotton pajama bottoms and an old, ratty t-shirt – his most comfortable sleepwear.

"You know, John, you didn't have to get dressed on my account. I wouldn't have cared in the slightest if you walked around without a shirt on. It's too hot to care about appearances right now." Sherlock stated as he sat is his chair across from John and pulled out his phone from his pocket.

"Yeah, then why are you wearing a shirt, genius?" John retorted.

Sherlock just gave his one of his more mysterious smirks and looked down at his phone, checking out the new case Lestrade had texted him.

Once he had deduced that the killer was the next-door neighbor's son, in less than two minutes, mind you, he decided to pursue his conversation with John further.

"Why don't you want me to see your scar?" Sherlock blurted out, causing John to nearly choke on his glass of water.

"What?" John exclaimed.

"Come on, John. Did you really think that I didn't notice that that was what you were trying so desperately to hide from me? You practically hurtled the desks to get to your t-shirt, and I doubt you were trying to hide the hair on your chest." Sherlock paused and observed the anxious look on John's face. "I didn't see it, if that's what you're so worried about. I was more focused on your pulse and breathing rate than I was on your old bullet wound." Sherlock was glad to see John physically relax. "I'm still curious however." Sherlock continued.

"Maybe I just don't want to prance around in front of my flatmate half naked, ever think of that?" John countered.

"Do you really expect me to believe that, John?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Well it's really none of your business, is it Sherlock?" John snapped.

"I apologize if I crossed a line. I was just thinking that we have been friends for a very long time, and we've been through a lot together, more than most friends, and yet I still have never seen your scar. Not even when we have been in the hospital together, even then you would be careful to cover your shoulder with your gown."

"That's nice, a very thorough thought process. Now drop it." John turned his gaze away from Sherlock and stared out the window.

Sherlock sat and pondered for a moment, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. After a moment, he came up with a course of action.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." Sherlock said.

"I'm sorry, what?" John was startled and confused, and a bit amused by Sherlock's use of that phrase.

"You asked me earlier why I was wearing a shirt in this heat. I will show you why I am wearing a shirt if you show me your scar." Sherlock explained.

"Sherlock…" John sighed.

"It's a fair trade, John." Sherlock replied.

"Can't you just drop this?" John practically pleaded.

"Do you think I'll ever drop it?" Sherlock countered.

"Can't you ever just give me one thing to myself? Just a little bit of privacy? I never even let Mary see my scar, Sherlock, what gives you the right to command me to take my shirt off so you can observe my weakest point?"

"I will desist if that will make you feel better. But I will always be curious. And you know what happens if I'm curious. I want to know why you never want people to see your scar."

John sighed. "Fine. But I'm not happy about it. And you're going first. I want to see whatever the hell you're talking about before I show you anything, got it?" John glared at Sherlock as he stood from his chair. "Well?"

Suddenly nervous, Sherlock stood from his chair and faced his best friend.

"Nobody knows about this, John. What I'm going to show you…not even Mycroft knows." Sherlock muttered.

"What are you talking about?" John questioned.

"Do you remember those two years that I was away?"

"Do I…of bloody course I remember, Sherlock! You faked your death and left me to grieve for two years, I'm not likely to forget anytime soon!" John cried.

"Still hold a grudge a see. Anyway, nobody knows the extent of what happened to me during those two years, especially the last few months after I was captured by the Russians. Mycroft infiltrated their ranks and got me out, but it wasn't soon enough…" Sherlock started to explain.

"What are you talking about?" John reiterated.

As an answer, Sherlock slowly pulled his ratty old t-shirt over his head and let it drop to his side, still clutched in his right hand. "See for yourself."

Sherlock turned around and John gasped. There were scars crisscrossing all across the taller man's back, clearly made by a whip, and clearly made often. John walked forward and lightly placed his finger on one of the larger scars, making Sherlock flinch slightly.

"Why?" John muttered, tracing one of the scars with his index finger and middle finger put together.

"The question they always asked was 'why not?' Enough about me though," Sherlock turned to face John and pulled his t-shirt back over his head, "it's in the past. But now you see why I put on a shirt even though it is so hot in here. And now it's your turn."

"Sherlock…"

"Please, John?" Sherlock implored.

John sighed and started to pull his t-shirt over his own head, wishing he was doing anything else in the world. "Don't judge me, all right?"

Once his shirt was off, John clutched it against his stomach in a death grip, looking as far away from Sherlock as his neck would allow. He was already fighting back tears just thinking about another person seeing his scar, especially Sherlock. He trusted the man, but he didn't want him to deduce the cowardice etched into every inch of the scar.

While John was arguing with himself, Sherlock was studying every single section of the scar with his eyes, mapping it perfectly in his mind palace so he would never forget. The scar was a small red welt on the front, with a few spidery veins of scar tissue extending out of it at random places. On the back, the wound was bigger (hallow point?), and there were more veins running around it. John, Sherlock deduced, was lucky to survive a bullet wound like this.

When he came back around to the front of John's shoulder, he could see how badly the soldier was struggling with the idea of letting his best friend see his wound.

Sherlock reached his hand out and brushed it against the welt on the front of John's shoulder, causing a tear to drip from the shorter man's eye.

Sherlock started to trace all the little lines jutting from the wound with a feathery touch.

"Why are you so ashamed of this? It's a sign of bravery." Sherlock questioned.

"No, it's not." John argued back instantly.

"What do you mean? This scar shows that you were not afraid to pay the ultimate price for your country." Sherlock was, for once, genuinely confused. He was still tracing his fingers over John's wound.

"No, that scar shows that I couldn't even stand a single bullet to the shoulder. Men and women died over there, they would get beaten, whipped, stabbed, shot, and they would still come back to fight. But me, I was shot in the shoulder and I couldn't go back. I ended up with a psychosomatic limp, for Christ's sake. I'm a coward." Another tear dripped from John's eye.

Sherlock stopped tracing the wound and lowered his hand, moving so he was directly in front of John.

"You are not a coward, my friend. You are the bravest man I have ever met. No matter what happens, you are always there to help the people who need it. And you have stuck by my side no matter what I do to you or what kind of danger I put you in. You are not a coward." Sherlock tried and failed to catch John's eye.

"Look at me." Sherlock asked. John still didn't look up.

" _Look at me._ " Finally, John looked up into Sherlock's eyes.

"You're a hero, John Watson. And you will never hear me say otherwise." Another tear dripped from John's eye as Sherlock pulled him forward into a hug, hand pressed protectively over the wound on the back of John's shoulder. Now they were closer than they had ever been before.


End file.
